


The Hour - If you stay, then I can't go

by Samstown4077



Series: Randall Brown / Bel Rowley Collection [9]
Category: The Hour (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Bel Followed to get him back home, Doctor Who References all the way, Drama, F/M, Freddie is dead, Friendship, Hurt, It plays in an unnamed war zone things can happen I haven't tagged, Love, Randall ran away, Romance, Set after series 2, Slow Burn, alternative universe, war zone
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:33:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28171737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: Running away to the next war zone, wasn't one of his brightest ideas, but the only one Randall Brown could live with. Unable to deal with the past, nor the future, he found a home just two miles away from the front line. And just when he was about to get lost in the rabbit hole of war, drinks and miserable thoughts, the one person he thought he never sees again showed at his door step. Bel Rowley didn't come to stay, but given herself and home a promise, she certainly wouldn't leave without him. Her actions will have consequences for them all.  // set after S2 // War conflict
Relationships: Freddie Lyon/Bel Rowley (past), Randall Brown/Bel Rowley, Randall brown/Lix storm (past)
Series: Randall Brown / Bel Rowley Collection [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/808311
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	1. Prologue - Randall

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story idea that sits on my virtual shelf idea for at least two years. Now I decided to begin posting, aside I really struggle to write these days, but I thought, posting will give me the courage and pressure to go on with the idea and finally finish it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story starts with a Prologue for Randall and in a following chapter for Bel. Moving then to the "now" of the story.

1937 - near Córdoba, Spain

Stumbling into the room, dragging a bag over one shoulder and a more practical backpack over the other, half the room turned eyeing the stranger. He must have looked like a lost explorer coming right out of the desert — one who was dying with thirst. For a moment, he was embarrassed then his dry mouth remembered him to get some water finally, or God help him. Cumbersome shuffling around with his bags, till he found a suitable spot to half throw them against the wall and let his body slumped exhausted against the bar, “Water, please!”

“Darling,” a voice reached him from aside, “you look like you walked here from Barcelona.”

Torn between watching the man behind the counter purring water into a glass, almost suggesting to him, he should simply reach over the whole bottle, and the comment made to him, he prioritised onto waiting for the glass of water first, gulping it down. With a huff of pure relief, he let the glass land back onto the counter harder than intended, turning his attention finally to his right. 

The sight struck him with surprise, finding a woman about his age sitting on a stool looking at him with a particular amusement he couldn’t place. With a mischievous smirk, her green eyes travelled unrestrained over his face and appearance, waiting for his response. 

He had come late with the plane, hurrying to catch the bus to Córdoba, forgetting about enough water for the 15-hour bus ride. Talking about Barcelona betrayed her as one of them, a journalist, photographer, or sort of. Press. She was English too.

“Not exactly,” he finally said, wondering prejudiced but unintentional what she was doing here. A woman, in Spain, being a reporter wasn’t something one met often. He lowered his gaze to her hands. One was holding a cigarette, and the other gracefully clasped around a glass of whiskey. 

“Petro, dear, will you give him a whiskey,” she smirked, then turned to the bartender, a man double their age, “I think he needs one.”

“I’d rather take another glass of water first,” he motioned to the bottle, and when Petro didn’t respond quick enough, he leaned over the wooden barrier, just reaching for the bottle himself. Placing a five-pound note onto the front, knowing it was a blunder getting into a fight with the barkeeper on the first day, meanwhile drinking the water bottle empty with the other. 

The amusement of his opposite didn’t vanish one bit, while he still wondered about her being here, “Are you with the BBC? I am supposed to meet up with an Alex Storm.” That remark rose a hearty chuckle from her, which made him rose an eyebrow at her behaviour, “That’s so funny why?” He had enough for today. 

“Well, Darling, you found him,” she dragged with relish at her smoke, her dark red lipstick staining the tip, the everlasting smirk not vanishing one moment.

He turned for a moment, letting his eyes travel through the room. A crowd of maybe eight other people, wondering who of them Alex Storm was. When she didn’t push him into the right direction, he turned back, finding her hold out her hand. 

“Alex Storm,” she winked. “Alexis actually. You must be Randall Brown.”

Bewildered, he reached for her hand and shook it not getting a word out. No one had spoken to him about meeting up with a woman, and he was sure they all had only talked about an Alex and nothing more. A fucking setup then.

Watching him still evaluate the situation, she reached for the new glass of whiskey Petro had placed between them earlier, and shoved it over to him, “Lix for short. Don’t pull a face like this, it doesn’t suit you, Mister Brown,” she shook her head over his astonishment.

She had expected someone older, with a better appearance. A sharper one, to be precise. This man was roughly her age, and his brown curly hair was almost touching his ears. Not long and the hair would always be about to fall into his eyes. The way he had stumbled into the room, longing for water so desperately had betrayed him being a beginner. Probably his first time in a war zone. The good thing was, it would help to form him a little. Once too often she had worked with others, stuck in their gridlocked behaviour not accepting input as to their own, “Drink up then, we leave for patrol in an hour. But before, we get you a classy room and a nice-looking helmet.”


	2. Prologue - Bel

Early 1956, London

“Bel...”

“Mh?” Bel was sitting on her bed, her reading glasses on her nose, her hair bound into a messy bun, trying to write an article for the upcoming day. 

Freddie had been quiet for at least an hour, just huffing a little, his pencil making the most noise by scratching erratic over the paper from time to time, while the rubber came into action every few minutes. A bunch of crumpled-up pieces lying around him. For some reason, he needed Bel’s attention.

“Bel!” 

“Listening,” she had to deliver this paper or God help her. 

Freddie sitting in front of the bed, his back against the edge, finally coming to his feet, holding a piece of paper in hand, to stare down at her, “No you are not, so come one, listen!” she didn’t react, rushing to finish her sentence, but he needed her attention now — or never. “Moneypenny!”

The only word that always made her react, “Damn it, Freddie,” she pushed the paper in her lap, looking at him expectantly. A smile overplayed her tension. 

“I have the pitch now,” he began. He knew he should be tired, as it was way after midnight, but when it came to News, his body used to mobilise the last reserves. 

Bel frowned, “What pitch?” Admittingly, she had partly forgotten he was still with her in the flat.

“The show we want to make.”

They had talked about it, again and again, the passing months. They had it all planned out; they only needed an appointment for the pitch at the BBC higher floors. 

“We have a pitch,” Bel shook her head. Wasn’t he supposed to write an article over the coal crisis at the docks? 

“The pitch is rubbish,” Freddie explained. “I made a new one.”

_ ‘Oh, great!’  _ but kept it to herself. Then a huff of exhaustion escaped her, “Without an appointment, it makes no sense. I haven’t heard back from them yet.”

Freddie waved around with the piece of paper, “I got the call a few hours ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she hopped from the bed, about to get into a rage of his negligent behaviour. How often had they talked about this? A million times? For twenty years now? “Christ, when?”

“Thursday, 9 am,” he raised an eyebrow and shared a grin with her. It was the chance they had waited for way too long. 

She considered him for a moment, the possibilities, and then nodded, “Okay, let me hear it.”

“It has to be the hour you can’t miss. The hour you have to see.”

Bel was never sure if Freddie meant something serious or as a joke, “Is this all? What did you do the past 60 Minutes? Where is the rest?”

He giggled, reaching for a cigarette, “Here!” and pointed at his head.

The blonde groaned in knowing of what would come. That would never work because it had never worked before, but whatever, she would take care of it. Like she always did, “So, it’s  _ The Hour _ then?”

He repeated the title silently, smiling and nodding a bit, “I like that. The Hour it is then.”

“The hour you can’t miss,” for the first time in a while she was able to laugh, knowing it would finally be a good thing coming from all the work.

Freddie grabbed her by the shoulders, pressing a kiss to her forehead, before telling her it was late, and he had to go home, “See you tomorrow, Moneypenny!” he was gone before she could grasp that he had kissed her. 

The paper he had scribbled down his pitch had ended up on her night stand, and she reached for it. It was battered, and the rubber had made spots of the paper gossamer-thin. Maybe, she thought a little sentimental, that she should keep and frame it, “Oh, Freddie.”

  
  
  



End file.
